The Worst Monster of All
by LadyLini
Summary: In which Dean's alcoholism is addressed and Castiel is introduced to the concept of Deanstiel (better known as Destiel). Set post 10x05. Destiel. T for language. Includes a BM scene. (No, not a bowel movement scene.)


**Disclaimer: I don't own ****_Supernatural_**** or any of its characters. Please don't sue me!**

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><p>It was Tuesday. Tuesday night, to be exact.<p>

There wasn't anything special about this particular Tuesday night. It was just another dark, rainy evening in Clearwater, New Mexico. For that, Dean was entirely grateful. He needed a night off after that play and the memories it had dredged up.

Sure, he and Sam had slain the big-bad-scarecrow and saved the day, along with the show, but that didn't mean that all the monsters were dead and buried. There was one ancient, horrifying monster still left to be dealt with—_feelings._

The beer bottle made contact with Dean's lips and he tipped the end toward the cracked ceiling of the rundown motel he and his brother were currently staying in. The liquid rushed from the bottle and into his mouth, then flooded down his throat into his stomach, leaving him with a warm, pleased sensation.

This was the way in which the elder Winchester dealt with his feelings. Drinking, booze, and more drinking. What else was there when one's life revolved around killing?

Sam looked up from his laptop and fixed his brother with a harsh gaze. "You know people die from alcohol poisoning, right?" he asked.

Dean burped and glared at him. "Liver of steel," he retorted, then took another swig.

Sam shook his head disbelievingly. "Dude, seriously. If you keep going like this…" he trailed off, leaving the rest to be imagined.

Dean rolled his eyes and relocated them to the rain-streaked window in front of him. "I'm not going to live long enough for alcohol poisoning to kill me, Sammy," he said. He didn't deliver the line as most would—as if it were an awful, terrible thing to be feared. No, Dean Winchester, Righteous Man, delivered the line as casually as if he were giving the time.

But Sam didn't let this deter him, rather he turned his attention back to his laptop in order to make a few web searches. "It says here," he began, turning the screen toward the drinker in question, "that one in ten adults between the ages of twenty and sixty-four will die of alcohol poisoning."

"That's wonderful, Samantha," Dean replied, tone short and exasperated. "While I reflect on this marvelous piece of information, I think I'll finish this lovely beer."

Sam's glare intensified. "Per year."

But Dean refused to see the seriousness of the situation. "This," he gestured with his free hand at the dark brown bottle, "really is delicious. I think I'll finish consuming it. And maybe another one while I'm at it. Who knows? Maybe I'll even have a third!"

Sam closed his laptop slowly, the way one does when they're trying desperately not to punch the living daylights out of someone. "Would you please take this seriously, Dean?" he requested.

Dean blew out a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefingers. "Are we really going to do this?" he demanded. "_Now?_"

"Why _not_ now?" Sam countered.

Dean opened and closed his mouth a few times, searching for the words to correctly express his current emotion toward Sam's beloved "BM" moments. When he realized there were none, he settled on, "Because screw you, that's why not."

Sam activated his bitchface. "Dean—"

"Shaddup," Dean mumbled. The bottle returned to his lips. A pause. "If I promise that this'll be my last one for tonight, will you leave me alone?"

Sam shook his head. "That's not the point," he said.

There was a long stretch of silence in which neither brother spoke, broken only by Sam tapping away at the keys of his computer. Dean had his suspicions about what was going to come next, but he did his very best to ignore that particular thought because he didn't really want to begin _that_ conversation.

But sure enough, just over fifteen minutes – and twelve swigs – later, Sam spoke again, his tone triumphant. "Every website I've been able to find says there's an underlying reason for your drinking."

Dean very pointedly continued to stare out the window.

Sam sighed and pushed on. "Would you like to tell me what that particular reason is?"

Dean blew out his own huff of air and wheeled on his younger brother. "You want a reason?" he challenged Sam. "A reason? How about Lucifer? The fact that I started the damn apocalypse?"

"I had a hand in that too," Sam reminded him. "Besides, we stopped it."

But Dean wasn't done. "What about the fact that everyone we've ever called a friend is dead? Dad, Bobby, Kevin… Hell, even Garth's a freaking werewolf. And Adam's in Hell! Didya get that bit? We left our own half-brother in Hell!"

Sam couldn't help but agree with that. That had indeed been a pretty dick move. Especially when added with the fact that they hadn't _remembered_. For years. Multiple years.

"And don't even get me started on the crap I've done to you," Dean went on. "You nearly had it all—Stanford, a law degree, a pretty girl. But I came waltzing on in and yanked you right back into this shithole of a life. For what? So you can get addicted to demon blood? Be the Devil's vessel? Spend some time in the Cage with Lucifer? Oh, and did I mention the fact that it was _Cas_ that finally made the nobel rescue? I was too busy playing house with Lisa!"

"That's not—" Sam began.

"Don't you even start that," Dean cut him off. "I should have noticed something was off with you when you got back. I mean, _c'mon_, what kind of brother am I if I didn't notice that _your soul was missing?_"

"Dean—"

"What about Cas, huh? Remember him? Angel of the Lord and all that jazz? I mean, it's one thing for _you_ to die for me, but Cas? He's not even my brother! And he _fell from Heaven!_ He chose me—us—over Heaven! Over his own brothers and sisters! And for what? So he can molotov Michel and get blown up? Or how about getting killed by Leviathans? That sure sounds like fun!" Dean added, his tone as cynical and sarcastic as possible, then took another drink.

Sam stayed quiet, realizing that Dean didn't seem to be ready to quit yelling just yet, so he let him keep going. Maybe it was good for him.

Sure enough, as soon as he swallowed the beer, Dean picked right back up where he'd left off. "Then he joined me on my little trip to Purgatory. And when he saved me,_ I left him there_. He gave us _everything._ And how did I repay him? I kicked him out of the bunker—the one safe place we know of. Then that Reaper killed him. Again." Dean wasn't tearing up. He just had a little manliness in his eyes.

Somewhere during this little speech, Dean had pushed himself away from the table under the window and stood up.

Now, Sam stood too and looked his brother straight in the eye. "Do you think that Cas and I stick around because we like the constant dying?" he asked the older Winchester. "Do you think we stick around because we want to make you feel terrible about yourself?"

Dean shrugged and raised the bottle once more. He hadn't really thought about their motivations.

Sam shook his head disbelievingly and gave a sort of snort-laugh through his nose. "Family goes both ways, Dean. I'm your family, but you're mine too. Same goes for Cas."

Dean dragged a hand over his face. "I don't think he'd see it that way."

"You're right," Sam said easily. "You two have the good ship Deanstiel to sail—that is slightly different dynamic."

Everything from the base of Dean's neck to the tips of his ears turned immediately to a shade of red only found in markers and paints. "Shut your face!" he squeaked indignantly.

Sam smirked, finding the outburst nothing but comical. "A little defensive there, are you?"

"I told you to shut your face," Dean repeated himself, moving to give his brother a rightfully deserved smack upside the head.

Sam ducked out of the way of and pushed his hair out of his eyes when it fell into them.

Dean rolled his eyes at that. "You should just cut it," he said, plopping back down in his chair. He eyed the bottle dangling from his fingertips for a moment, then, with a very obvious look at Sam, tossed it into the waste-bin by the door. "I'll try," he said, "but that's all I can promise."

Sam nodded, relieved. "Thanks, Dean."

"Yeah, whatever," Dean mumbled. "You should still cut your hair. You look like friggin' Rapunzel."

Sam wasted no time in making his own jab. "I'll cut it as soon as you and Cas make Deanstiel cannon."

Dean's mouth opened and closed, as if he were impersonating a fish out of water, while he tried to formulate a response. Those girls had given his little brother a vocabulary that was nothing but scary, along with ideas that held _far_ too much potential ammunition.

It was, of course, in this moment that Castiel chose to make his appearance.

Dean started, mildly surprised by the angel's sudden coming. "Geez, Cas," he exclaimed. "How 'bout little warning next time?"

Castiel was standing so close to Dean that Sam no longer had to wonder where the Deanstiel shippers got their ideas. If Chuck put half of the personal-space-invasions into his books as those that really occurred, Sam imagined that even the most unobservant audience would be more than capable of detecting the tension he had to live with on a more-or-less daily basis.

"My apologies," Castiel said in that deep voice of his. "I heard you calling my name."

Dean cocked his head, a trait he had no doubt picked up from the angel. "I wasn't—I was just talking to Sam."

Then there were two beings cocking their heads in confusion. "About me?" Castiel asked.

Dean's fish impression made a second appearance. "Not that way—I just—Sam and I were talking about Deestiel, or whatever it is, and—"

"Deestiel?" Castiel repeated, even more confused than he had been in the moments previous.

"Uh," Dean stammered, "Yeah, it's uh—Well, it's no big deal, but some of the fans of the _Supernatural_ books—what is it?—ship us or something—"

"Ship us where?" Castiel inquired.

If it were at all possible, Dean turned an even deeper shade of red than he'd been previously. "It's what they call it—"

"They?" the angel interrupted.

"The fans," Dean replied. "Now quit interrupting. It's what they call it when they want two people together."

Castiel looked lost. "We are together," he said in confusion, gesturing to the room around them.

At that, Sam began laughing so hard that he very nearly fell off the bed he was splayed on.

Dean showed absolutely no signs of returning to his original pale state. "Romantically," he clarified in a choked voice.

"Oh." Castiel nodded, though his brow remained furrowed. "And you were discussing this with your brother?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "I—well—"

"Yes," Sam cut in. "He was, but we're done now. In fact, he was just telling me how much he wanted to talk with you and make it cannon!"

Dean turned to his little brother, his alarm clear on his face. "_What the hell?_" he mouthed.

Sam just smirked and kept talking. "Actually, I'm going to head over to the library—see if they have anything on the uh, the monster we're hunting right now. You two kids have fun!"

As Sam sauntered past him, Dean made no move to stop him. Maybe he was panicking so much that he was incapable of movement. Maybe his subconscious mind actually wanted to be left alone with the angel. Either way, Sam was past his brother and had retrieved his jacket from the floor by the door.

When Sam had his hand on the doorknob, he paused, turned to Dean, and added, "_Alone._"

Then he ran.


End file.
